w..s«affi 


JHemotr*  of  a  fetotne 
mtfjellanbotiuiltur 

OR,  HOW  IT  FELT  TO  BE  A 
PRISONER  OF  WAR 


<By  BEN  MUSE 


ir 


•* 


Library 

OF  THE 

rersity  of  NortK  Carolina 

This  book  was  presented  by 


MM3& 


Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

University  of  North  Carolina  at  Chapel  Hill 


http://archive.org/details/memoirsofswinemuse 


The  Author  and  an  Sngltsh  Fellow-cPnsoner,  from  '■Photograph 

Taken  Three  SMonths  TSefore  the  Armistice.    The  Author  is 

Wearing  an  Old  French  Uniform  With  Which  he  was 

Fitted  Out  After  cRunning  Away  and  Losing  his 

cRegulation  cPrison  Coslume 


MEMOIRS  OF  A  SWINE  IN  THE 
LAND  OF  KULTUR 

OR 


HOW  IT  FELT  TO  BE 
A  PRISONER  OF  WAR 


<By  BEN  MUSE 

36926  Lance- Corporal  11th  King's 
Royal  Rifles 


Trice  50  Cents 


Copyright,  1919 

BY 

BEN  MUSE 


THE  SEEMAN  PRINTERY,  DURHAM,  N.  C. 


v9 
CS 


PREFACE 

The  following  narrative  tells  of  the  adventures  of  an  Am- 
erican boy  in  German  imprisonment  from  his  capture  No- 
vember 30,  1917,  to  his  release  December  9,  1918.  The  au- 
thor is  a  native  of  Durham,  N.  C,  and  a  student  of  Trinity 
College,  who  went  over  and  joined  the  English  forces  before 
America's  entry  into  the  war,  serving  in  the  Eleventh  King's 
Royal  Rifles  six  months  and  going  through  the  severe  fighting 
around  Ypres  and  Cambrai  before  his  capture. 


The  Memoirs  of  a  Swine  in  the  Land  of  Kultur 
or,  How  it  Felt  to  be  a  Prisoner  of  War 


CHAPTER  I 
Capture 

I  was  bandaging  poor  Sergeant  Sharpy's  wounds. 

"It's  all  up  with  us,  Muse,"  he  said. 

I  feared  that  it  was  all  up  with  him,  at  any  rate,  as  I 
clumsily  tried  to  stop  the  torrent  of  blood  which  was  flowing 
from  his  head  and  shoulders. 

It  was  after  an  hour  of  one  of  those  hells  such  as  only 
soldiers  of  the  line  can  understand,  when  death  and  suffering 
were  everywhere  and  survival  seemed  the  rare  and  lucky  ex- 
ception. The  machine  gun  corporal  on  my  left  had  died  at  his 
gun,  and  the  contorted  body  of  my  good  old  mate,  "Wally," 
blocked  the  view  farther  down  the  trench.  On  my  right  the 
three  survivors  of  my  section  were  still  firing  furiously  over 
the  parapet. 

Personally  I  had  not  suffered  from  the  barrage  beyond  the 
interruption  of  my  preparation  for  breakfast.  The  biscuits 
and  jam  and  chocolate  lay  spread  on  the  edge  of  my  "hole," 
and  the  canteen  of  tea- water  over  my  boot-dubbin  fire  stead- 
ily refused  to  boil.  I  left  the  wounded  sergeant  to  look  over 
the  top.  The  mass  of  running  grey  uniforms  was  now  very 
near  us.  I  could  see  the  flags  which  they  carried  and  hear  the 
roar  of  "Hurrahs"  between  the  bursting  of  shells. 

But  who  were  those  brown,  unarmed  figures  running  over 
on  our  left  ?  My  God !  They  were  our  own  chaps — already 
captured !  I  glanced  quickly  around.  The  Germans  were  at 
our  rear!  The  little  hill  behind  us  was  dotted  with  the  grey 
figures,  and  those  flags  could  be  seen  in  every  direction. 

"They're  all  around ,"  but  ere  I  could  finish  they  were 

on  us.    A  shower  of  hand  grenades  and  then  "Fritz"  himself. 


6  The  Memoirs  of  a  Swine  or 

"Hurra!  Hurra!  'Raus!  'Raus!"  and  shaking  with  excite- 
ment they  shoved  their  bayonets  in  my  face. 

I  laid  down  my  rifle  and  began  undoing  my  equipment. 

I  helped  the  sergeant  over  the  top,  snatched  up  a  bag  of 
biscuits,  took  a  last  fond  look  at  my  tea-water — now  begin- 
ning to  boil ! — and  scrambled  over  after  him. 


CHAPTER   II 
In  Conquered  France 

The  journey  to  our  camp  in  Germany  will  be  remembered 
by  most  of  my  comrades  only  as  a  hungry  nightmare,  inter- 
rupted at  long  intervals  by  bowls  of  unsatisfying  German 
soup.  Those  of  us  who  had  enough  biscuits  to  keep  from 
suffering  found  it  an  interesting  opportunity  to  see  the  Ger- 
mans behind  their  lines  and  the  life  of  the  French  under  Ger- 
man rule. 

The  latter  were  splendid  to  us.  In  every  town  or  village 
through  which  we  passed,  they  turned  out  in  crowds  to  do  us 
honor.  Girls  smiled  sympathetically  and  old  women  cried. 
Cheering  was,  of  course,  verboten. 

In  one  small  village  an  old  French  gentleman  came  out 
into  the  street  and  raised  his  tall  silk  hat  to  us.  Instinctively 
the  boys  in  the  front  of  our  column  responded  with  a  salute, 
and  their  example  was  followed  by  each  section  of  fours  in 
its  turn,  as  they  marched  past.  Three  or  four  German 
officers  came  up,  cursing  and  shaking  their  fists  to  drive  the 
old  man  away,  but  he  remained  defiantly  bare-headed  and  mo- 
tionless until  the  last  of  his  country's  allies  had  filed  past. 

The  French  would  gladly  have  relieved  our  hunger,  too, 
from  their  own  slim  stores,  had  it  been  possible.  As  it  was 
they  smuggled  food  to  us  at  every  opportunity.  The  front  files 
often  found  loaves  of  bread  and  sandwiches  on  the  sidewalks, 
placed  there  hurriedly  by  the  French  women  on  seeing  us 
coming.  Bits  of  food  as  well  as  warm  caps  and  sometimes 
jackets  were  thrown  down  to  us  from  the  second  story  win- 
dows. French  girls  ran  out  of  their  houses  to  bring  us  food 
and  drink,  in  laughing  defiance  of  cursing  Landsturmers — and 
dashed  away  again. 

It  was  everywhere  evident  that,  for  all  our  unwashed  faces 
and  muddy  and  ragged  uniforms  we  were,  after  all,  their 
friends,  and  those  other  flashy  soldiers  who  swaggered  about 
their  streets  and  into  their  shops  and  homes,  were  their  eternal 
enemies. 


8  The  Memoirs  of  a  Swine  or 

One  of  the  pictures  from  that  journey  which  remains 
clearest  in  my  memory  is  that  of  the  second  night  of  captivity, 
standing  before  the  Cathedral  of  Le  Quesnoy.  The  edifice 
loomed  beautiful  before  us  in  the  mellow  moonlight  and  re- 
flected a  feeling  of  peace  and  reverence  in  us  warriors  fresh 
from  the  trenches.  Three  women,  dressed  in  black,  came  out 
of  the  door  just  as  the  front  of  our  column  marched  into  the 
yard.  They  stopped,  horror-struck,  when  they  saw  us  there. 
Would  they  quarter  us  in  the  Cathedral?  One  of  them  hur- 
ried away  to  find  the  cure.  The  other  two  approached  the 
officer  in  charge  of  us  and  protested  in  French.  Barking  out 
words  of  brutal  German  and  pushing  the  ladies  aside,  the 
officer  walked  on  toward  the  door. 

The  first  lady  had  now  returned  with  the  reverend  father. 
Very  calmly  he  attempted  to  prevent  this  desecration,  but  the 
only  result  was  to  exhaust  the  patience  of  the  vandal  officer. 
Finally  he  seized  the  cure  by  the  shoulders  and  pushed  him 
down  the  steps.     Then,  turning  to  the  prisoners : 

"Marsch!"  he  rasped. 

The  cure  bowed  his  head  and  walked  away,  followed  by 
the  three  weeping  ladies  and  the  hordes  of  prisoners  and 
guards  crowded  slowly  into  the  Cathedral. 


CHAPTER  III 
iars 


A  prisoner  of  war  camp  had  many  characteristics  in  com- 
mon with  other  communities  of  human  beings.  It  had  its  so- 
cial classes,  its  great  and  its  humble  citizens,  its  rich  and  its 
poor.  In  arriving  in  camp  I  was  fortunate  enough  to  meet  a 
friend,  a  Frenchman,  with  three  years  service  in  captivity 
and  an  ample  stock  of  provisions.  He  "adopted"  me.  The 
fate  of  my  eight  hundred  comrades,  however,  was  pitiful. 
Finding  practically  nothing  in  the  Help  Committee's  stores 
and  being  as  yet  without  help  from  England,  they  were  forced 
to  subsist  on  the  German  ration  which  was  scarcely  enough 
to  keep  a  man  on  his  feet.  The  usual  results  of  hunger  set  in, 
and  I  saw  these  poor  fellows  sink  into  shabby,  hungry,  beg- 
ging wanderers  about  the  camp. 

My  friend  M was  one  of  the  most  important  men 

in  the  camp.  He  was  intimate  with  all  the  bureau  clerks, 
Unteroffiziere,  interpreters,  "good"  sentries,  and  other  per- 
sons worth  knowing.  He  lived  with  three  French  sous-offi- 
cers in  a  comfortably  furnished  or  "fixed  up"  Kleines  Zinuner, 
They  had  everything  that  friends  could  send  them  in  parcels, 
and  wanted  for  nothing  but  liberty  and — happiness. 

I  had  just  finished  a  good  breakfast  of  bacon  and  toast 
and  cocoa,  prepared  by  the  Italian  "batman"  and  was  stand- 
ing before  the  windows  enjoying  a  cigar  with  M .    The 

door  was  bolted  against  beggars  who  knocked  incessantly 
from  early  morning  till  late  at  night. 

I  heard  a  shuffling  outside  and  a  timid  tapping  on  the  door, 
a  pause  and  another  tap ;  a  longer  pause,  and  then  a  shuffling 
away. 

"Un  italien,"  observed  M ,  still  gazing  out  the  win- 
dow. Another  visitor  walked  up,  thumped  once  on  the  door, 
and  walked  away  again,  almost  without  pausing. 

"Un  anglais.     You  can  always  tell." 

"Rotten  cigars,"  he  continued,  dismissing  the  subject  of 


10  The  Memoirs  of  a  Swine  or 

the  poor  fellows  who  had  gone  away  from  the  door,  "but  you'll 
have  a  chance  to  try  a  real  one  when  Louis  comes  in.  He  has 
a  box  of  Perfectos  stuck  away  somewhere.  What?  Still 
worrying  about  our  unadmitted  visitors?" 

I  was.  I  was  wondering  if  that  last  chap  was  one  of  my 
battalion.    How  could  M take  it  so  coolly  ? 

"If  you  stay  long  in  the  camps,"  he  went  on  sagely,  "you'll 
learn  that  you  can't  afford  to  weep  everytime  you  see  a  hun- 
gry man.  We  wept  for  ourselves  in  1914,  and  afterwards  we 
wept  a  lot  for  other  chaps,  but  when  one's  been  in  the  midst 
of  suffering  men  for  three  years,  one  learns  to  keep  from 
thinking  about  it — or  else  one  would  go  mad.  We  give  them 
what  we  can  spare  and  then  try  to  think  of  something  else." 


CHAPTER  IV 
La  Glorieuse  Armee  Britannique 

The  scene  on  which  we  gazed  through  the  window  was  a 
typical  one  for  a  prison  camp.  The  path  along  the  barbed 
wire  formed  a  sort  of  wretched  promenade  along  which  the 
sufficiently  nourished  took  their  constitutionals.  A  few  Eng- 
lish sergeants,  two  bearded  French  ajutants,  and  a  group  of 
vivacious  young  Russian  officiers  aspirants  were  pacing  mo- 
notonously back  and  forth  as  one  does  on  board  ship. 

"Pane!1   Pane,   Kamarad!" 

A  few  Italians  had  suddenly  appeared  from  across  the 
corner.  I  was  astonished  at  their  youth.  Two  of  them  were 
but  children  with  blue  eyes  and  pretty  girlish  faces. 

"Fourteen  years  old,  the  one  with  the  handkerchief  around 

his  neck,"  explained  M .     "The  other  is  fifteen.     They 

were  claimed  to  have  been  helping  the  Italian  Army  and  so 
were  brought  here  along  with  the  soldiers." 

"Pane!  Brot!"2  they  persisted.  I  chucked  them  a  handful 
of  biscuits. 

"No !  No !"  remonstrated  M .    "You'll  fetch  the  whole 

tribe  of  them." 

His  words  were  not  long  in  coming  true.  A  few  stray 
Italians  had  seen  the  incident  and  were  already  coming  for 
their  share. 

"Pane!  Pane!  Buono  compagno!3  Pane!" 

A  crowd  quickly  gathered  around  the  window. 

"Allez!  Allez!  Macaroni,  Garibaldi,  Sacramento,  allez!" 
and  he  tried  vainly  to  wave  them  back. 

"Pane,  pane!"  They  were  reaching  their  arms  through 
the  windows  now.  The  Frenchman  pushed  their  arms  back 
and  closed  the  window. 

Presently  another  rabble  appeared,  a  working  party  of  two 
or  three  hundred  starving  men,  urged  on  by  cursing  sentries. 


1  Italian :    Bread. 

3  German :   Bread. 

3  Italian  :  Good  comrade. 


12  The;  Memoirs  of  a  Swine;  or 

Slowly  and  listlessly  they  straggled  by,  hobbling  painfully, 
most  of  them  in  their  wooden  "clogs."  (Boots  and  puttees 
had  long  gone  for  food.)  Many  of  them  were  of  my  battalion 
and  company,  but  they  were  so  altered  that  it  took  a  moment's 
study  to  recognize  them.  There  was  the  smart  young  bat- 
talion clerk,  a  well-paid  accountant  in  civilian  life,  plodding 
along  like  a  broken  old  man,  with  a  full  beard  and  a  shabby 
costume  of  German  and  Russian  cast-off  clothes.  There  was 
"Smiley,"  the  company  barber,  never  known  to  be  out  of 
humor.  The  smile  still  lingered  on  his  pale  features,  but  his 
jokes  were  lost  on  his  saddened  comrades.  All  had  the  hope- 
less, dejected  look  of  constantly  hungry  men. 

We  watched  the  poor  fellows  until  the  last  of  the  "rear 
guard"  had  hobbled  past. 

"La  glorieuse  Armee  Britannique !"   observed   M .     I 

looked  to  see  if  he  was  smiling;  but  he  wasn't.  He  meant  no 
sarcasm. 

I  will  leave  the  first  wretched  months  of  captivity — which 
I  like  neither  to  remember  nor  to  recall  to  other  erstwhile 
Gefangener — for  that  simple,  more  tolerable  life  which  most 
of  us  found  on  the  German  farms. 

It  was  the  night  after  my  first  day's  work  on  a  farm,  way 
up  in  the  village  of  Kossebade,  Grand  Duchy  of  Mecklenburg. 
I  lay  nestled  in  a  soft  feather  bed,  for  the  first  time  in  many 
months,  thinking  over  the  events  of  the  past  month  and  sum- 
ming up  the  extent  of  my  good  luck. 

I  had  found  the  people  of  the  household,  at  first  hand,  to 
be  reasonable  creatures  and  I  couldn't  grumble  at  the  hardness 
of  the  work.  I  was  particularly  astonished  at  the  five  meals 
of  substantial  food  a  day ! 

I  thought,  too,  of  the  men  captured  with  me  and  how  much 
worse  they  must  be  faring.  Three  hundred  of  them,  I  knew, 
had  gone  to  Lille  to  work  behind  the  German  line.  I  had 
stood  at  the  camp  gate  to  bid  them  boodbye  as  they  marched 
away,  for  I  knew  them  almost  to  a  man.  Poor  fellows,  still 
without  help  from  England,  they  hobbled  away  in  their  rags 
and  "clogs,"  and  tattered  uniforms  (in  the  middle  of  January) 


How  It  Feet  to  be  a  Prisoner  of  War  13 

with  their  three  slices  of  bread  for  a  two  days'  journey,  in  one 
hand. 

But  could  I  believe  my  ears !  They  were  singing ! — for 
Tommy  always  sings  when  breaking  camp — "Here  We  Are, 
Here  We  Are,  Here  We  Are  Again,"  it  was,  and  they  sang  it 
right  lustily. 

I  thought  less  painfully  of  the  comrades  which  I  had  left 
in  my  last  camp — my  room-mates,  Fred,  Charley  and  Jack. 
I  wondered  if  Jack  was  still  "cleaning  up"  at  pontoon,  if  Fred 
was  getting  his  parcels  again,  and  if  Charley  was  still  making 
those  famous  "burgoo"  puddings. 

At  last  my  thoughts  drifted  inevitably  across  the  sea  and 
home,  and  I  dreamt  of  home  afterward.  Indeed,  the  next 
morning  I  could  not  tell  where  my  thoughts  had  left  off  and 
my  dream  had  begun. 


CHAPTER  V 
My  First  Hardship 

There  were  two  girls  on  the  place,  Miga,  the  farmer's 
daughter,  and  Erna,  the  milkmaid.  The  latter,  a  big,  muscular, 
typically  German  peasant  girl,  took  it  upon  herself  to  be  my 
special  guardian  and  tutor  in  the  art  of  agriculture,  and  came 
to  play  no  less  a  part  in  my  life  than  that  of  my  Woman  of 
Destiny  and  Chief  Tormentor. 

Of  course,  I  had  told  the  Unteroffizier4  that  I  could  farm — 
for  farming  was  certainly  better  than  mining  or  munitions 
making — but,  as  a  matter  of  fact,  beyond  the  items  that  horses 
ate  hay  and  cows  gave  milk,  and  a  general  hazy  idea  that 
there  was  a  lot  of  digging  attached  to  it,  I  knew  nothing 
about  it. 

So  my  tutor  had  plenty  to  do — and  she  did  it  quite  thor- 
oughly. Aside  from  her  formidable  physique,  she  had  a  tone 
of  command  which  could  but  strike  awe  in  a  new  and  un- 
sophisticated Gefangener. 

My  greenness  she  found  most  uproariously  funny,  and  she 
gave  me  every  opportunity  to  exhibit  it.  I  was  put  on  all  of 
those  delightful  tasks  which  are  especially  reserved  for  green- 
horns, such  as  chasing  the  pigs,  leading  the  cows  to  the  village 
bull,  putting  the  halter  on  an  uncatchable  colt  in  the  pasture, 
or  lifting  a  board  which  was  nailed  down. 

But  I  made  display  of  enough  of  my  ignorance  without 
these  special  inducements.  One  day  I  think  I  made  a  blunder 
of  quite  everything  which  was  given  me  to  do.  Besides  such 
minor  offences  as  putting  the  wrong  harness  on  the  horse  and 
tying  the  cows  in  the  wrong  stalls,  I  spilled  a  sack  of  oats, 
broke  a  window-pane  in  the  barn  and  buried  a  young  turkey 
beneath  a  fork- full  of  manure — all  in  one  day !  At  first  Erna 
scolded  sharply,  but  finding  me  quite  hopeless,  she  seemed 
finally  to  give  me  up  and  simply  trust  to  luck  that  I  would 
leave  the  house  standing  and  some  of  the  stock  alive  at  the 


*  German  non-commissioned  officer. 


How  It  Felt  to  be  a  Prisoner  oe  War  15 

end  of  this  "perfect  day."  She  did,  however,  regard  me  with 
such  a  horribly  disgusted  look  that,  had  I  not  been  so  "fed 
up"  and  disgusted  myself,  I  would  have  had  grave  misgiv- 
ings for  my  future. 

At  all  events  I  was  convinced  that  after  the  failure  I  had 
made  of  the  day's  work,  they  would  not  call  me  in  for  supper 
that  evening.  Indeed,  I  would  fain  have  gone  to  rest  without 
that  unearned  repast.  It  didn't  matter  what  I  did  or  what 
they  said,  I  told  myself,  they  were  only  Germans,  and  I  wasn't 
hungry  anyhow.  With  this  intent  I  was  walking  shame- 
facedly through  the  kitchen  to  my  cell  when  Erna  swept  in. 

"Where  are  you  going?"  she  demanded,  seizing  me  by  the 
collar.  "Supper!"  she  roared,  as  she  pulled  me  into  the  din- 
ing room. 

The  family  had  already  eaten,  so  I  was  left  to  eat  with 
my  tormentor.  The  table  was  spread  for  the  first  time  with 
a  white  table-cloth,  for  they  had  evidently  had  guests.  She 
sat  down  directly  opposite  me,  and  only  once  was  the  silence 
broken. 

"Don't  soil  the  table-cloth,"  she  commanded,  pointing 
threateningly  with  her  fork. 

It  stirred  my  blood  a  bit  to  think  of  this  creature  lecturing 
me  on  table-manners. 

"I've  eaten  off  more  white  table-cloths  than  you,"  I  re- 
torted bravely,  fumbling  at  my  fork  in  defence. 

She  took  this  sally  with  contemptuous  silence,  which  con- 
tinued, with  dark  and  threatening  glances  until  we  finished 
supper.  She  finished  first.  There  was  a  dreadful  pause,  then 
she  got  up  and  sat  down  beside  me ! 

I  watched  her  with  suspicious  alarm.  I  moved  a  few  inches 
along  the  bench  and  fumbled  again  at  my  fork.  Then  it 
came — all  of  a  sudden.  She  threw  her  arms  around  me  and 
kissed  me ! 

"Ydu  poor  little  English  fool !"  she  said. 


CHAPTER  VI 
The  Day  of  Rest 

Sunday  came  and  I  was  overjoyed  to  learn  that  it  was 
observed  even  in  Germany.  I  was  feeding  the  cows  when 
they  told  me  the  good  news.  I  finished  feeding  them  with 
enough  haste  to  give  them  three  kinds  of  indigestion  and  ran 
over  to  the  next  farm  to  see  my  mate,  Albert,  who  had  come 
to  the  village  along  with  me.  I  located  him  by  the  strains  of 
"Carry  Me  Back  to  Dear  Old  Blighty!"  played  on  a  mouth 
harmonica,  and  coming  from  the  little  room  adjoining  the  cow 
stall.  We  greeted  each  other  as  though  we  had  been  separated 
for  years. 

"Well,  old  boy,  what  do  you  think  of  it?"  I  asked. 

"All  right,  but  blooming  lonesome.  Say,  what  would  you 
have  said  to  a  bloke  in  '14  if  he  had  told  you  you'd  be  a 
farmer's  boy  in  Mecklenburg,  Germany,  today?" 

"I'd  have  said  he  was  mad,"  I  said  laughing.  "But  I  ex- 
pect we  are  lucky.  It's  better  than  digging  trenches  or  mak- 
ing munitions  for  Fritz.  Say,  how's  your  grub?  I  can't  go 
their  black  bread,  can  you?" 

"No,  it's  like  eating  straw,  but  they  say  we'll  get  used  to 
it.  Did  you  notice  them  eating  jam  on  the  meat  and  prunes 
with  the  spuds?" 

"Yes.    Mad  beggars,  aren't  they?" 

I  thought  of  the  two  cigarettes  which  I  had  saved  for  us 
to  smoke  together  and  pulled  them  out.  He  grabbed  one  of 
them  like  a  drowning  man  grabs  a  life-preserver,  and  lit  it. 

"Here's  a  cigar  for  you,"  he  said.  "Cut  it  up  and  smoke 
it  in  your  pipe.  I  can't  go  them.  The  boss  gave  it  to  me  last 
night.  He  is  the  mayor  of  the  village,  you  know,  sort  of  a 
toff.  Came  in  the  stall,  queer  like,  and  says,  'Krieg' — that 
means  war,  don't  it? — 'Krieg,  nickt  gut,  Albert,'  and  he  gives 
me  this.  'Rauchen/5  he  says.  I  think  he  must  have  been 
drunk." 

8  Smoke. 


It 


\>4  a 


«H     ~9 


How  It  Felt  to  be  a  Prisoner  of  War  17 

I  told  him  about  my  own  adventures,  and  we  laughed  to- 
gether. He  had  fared  somewhat  similarly,  but  he  was  a 
trained  farmer  and  he  got  along  more  smoothly  with  the 
work. 

"I  wonder  what  the  boys  in  the  bat  would  say  if  they 
could  see  me  wringing  out  shirts  with  Gretchen!"  he  said 
laughing. 

"Or  me  sawing  wood  with  Erna !"  I  added. 

"Al-1-bert !  Al-1-bert !"  came  a  voice  from  the  house. 

"Well,  that's  breakfast,"  said  Albert.  "I'll  be  going  in. 
Isn't  it  a  game,  eh  ?" 

"Aye,"  I  agreed,  "Ain't  it  a  game !     So  long !" 

"So  long.     See  you  after!" 

After  breakfast  we  went  out  for  a  walk  and  visited  the 
other  prisoners  in  the  village,  especially  the  three  other  Eng- 
lishmen, and  the  two  old  Frenchmen  who  had  been  in  the 
village  since  '14.  The  five  Serbians  formed  a  little  group  of 
their  own  and  the  Russians,  some  thirty-five  in  number, 
formed  another.  The  latter  had  one  Sunday  pastime, 
Einundswanzig .  Month  in  and  month  out,  some  of  them  for 
two,  three  and  four  years,  they  followed  this  monotonous 
existence — six  days  of  work  and  one  of  cards. 

From  that  day  until  the  armistice,  we  seven  Englishmen 
and  French  were  fast  friends,  and  every  Sunday  found  us 
together.  In  the  tavern,  by  the  village  pond,  or  seated  on  the 
manger  in  some  cow  stall,  we  talked  and  laughed  and  sang 
and  longed  for  the  Day  of  Deliverance  to  come. 


CHAPTER  VII 
The  Conquest  of  Erna 

As  time  went  on  I  grew  more  adept  as  a  farmer  and 
bolder  as  my  increased  efficiency  justified.  Even  Erna  ceased 
to  terrorize  me.  The  latter  relief  dated  from  one  morning  in 
the  cow  stall  when  she  exasperated  me  beyond  all  patience  by 
her  sneering  denunciation  of  the  "English  swine."  I  an- 
swered her  as  neatly  as  I  could,  but  my  broken  German  only 
seemed  to  her  the  funnier,  the  more  excited  I  became.  It 
reached  a  climax  when  she  punctuated  her  argument  by  pok- 
ing me  in  the  face  with  the  broom.  I  struck  out  blindly  and 
hit  her  somewhere,  for  she  fell  screaming  to  the  floor.  I 
noted  with  satisfaction  that  I  had  given  her  a  respectable  clout 
on  the  nose.  The  skin  was  all  broken,  and  presently  it  began 
to  bleed.  The  blood  frightened  her  into  silence,  and  from 
the  terrified  way  in  which  she  stared  at  me,  I  believe  she 
thought  she  was  murdered.  Indeed,  I  had  some  tremors  my- 
self, and  we  were  mutually  pleased  when  she  showed  strength 
enough  to  get  up  on  her  feet.  She  walked  feebly  through  the 
barn  to  the  backyard  to  let  her  nose  bleed. 

I  sprinkled  some  sand  over  the  blood  on  the  floor  in  the 
meantime,  and  presently  the  little  boy  who  worked  on  the  place 
came  in. 

"I  think  you've  killed  her,"  he  observed  solemnly,  regard- 
ing me  as  one  would  a  murderer  waiting  for  execution.  "She's 
bled  about  a  liter !    They'll  hang  you !" 

Not  particularly  reassured  by  this  cheering  prediction,  I 
paced  back  and  forth  in  the  stall,  meditating  on  the  conse- 
quences of  the  deed.  If  I  must  go  to  the  gallows,  I  resolved 
to  do  it  like  a  Sydney  Carton  or  a  Nathan  Hale.  I  was  trying 
to  think  of  the  German  for  "I  regret  only  that  I  have  but  one 
life  to  give  for  my  country,"  when  I  heard  the  familiar  yell : 

"FruhsUick-k-kl"  That  was  breakfast.  I  went  in,  but  no 
Erna  appeared.  I  didn't  see  her  all  day  long.  Heavens !  I 
thought,  she  hasn't  vanished  altogether? 


How  It  Felt  to  be  a  Prisoner  of  War  19 

At  last,  at  the  supper  table,  I  was  put  at  ease.  There,  be- 
hind a  huge  plaster,  I  saw  the  face  of  my  old  tormentor  again, 
tearful  and  subdued ;  but,  thank  God,  alive ! 

They  did  nothing  to  me  for  mashing  Erna's  nose.  I  ex- 
plained it  to  the  sentry  with  a  self-defence  touch,  and,  as  he 
did  not  like  Erna  himself,  he  let  me  off  with  a  reprimand  and 
the  usual  admonition : 

"Don't  forget  that  you're  a  Gefangener!" 

I  learned  from  this  affair  that,  aside  from  the  protection 
which  a  passing  knowledge  of  German  gave  me,  one  could 
take  a  great  many  liberties  with  these  simple  country  people, 
if  one  only  made  a  bold  face  of  it.  On  the  other  hand,  the 
more  one  submitted  to,  the  more  one  had  to  endure.  I  knew 
an  Italian  who  had  to  work  almost  every  Sunday,  simply  be- 
cause he  consented  to  work  the  first  Sunday.  I  also  knew  of 
several  Russians  who  were  imprisoned  in  pig-stalls  and  others 
who  were  kicked  and  cuffed  and  slashed  with  knives  by  the 
same  sentries  who  guarded  us  and  for  smaller  offenses  than 
we  were  constantly  committing,  but — until  my  attempted  es- 
cape— none  of  the  Englishmen  there  were  touched. 


CHAPTER  VIII 
For  the  Name  of  Old  England 

The  one  great  pastime  of  the  Mecklenburg  peasants  was 
arguing  about  the  war  with  the  prisoners.  For  us,  it  was  im- 
possible to  avoid  it.  We  were  placed  there  for  the  amusement 
of  the  natives  as  well  as  for  toil,  and  neither  the  utter  ignor- 
ance of  the  subject  on  the  part  of  the  German  nor  the  ignor- 
ance of  the  native  tongue  on  the  part  of  the  prisoner  fur- 
nished any  immunity. 

"Bngland,  nicht  gut!"  or  "England  kaput !"6  was  the  usual 
challenge. 

New  prisoners  often  found  their  rebuttal  limited  to  a 
simple,  but  vigorous,  "Nay,  nay,  nay  !"7 

Older  prisoners  with  a  greater  flow  of  language  would  gal- 
lantly defend  the  name  of  old  England  in  a  tirade  similar  to 
the  following: 

"Deutschland  kaput  I  Bngland  nicht  kaput!  Bngland  besser! 
J  a!  Ja!  Englische  Soldaten  kommen  immer  fester!  Passe  mal 
auf.  Immer  fester!" 

At  first  I  tried  serious  argument,  but  this  fell  on  barren 
ground.  They  knew  no  facts  and  believed  none  which  I  as- 
serted. For  my  part,  they  thought  it  absurd  that  I  should  pre- 
tend to  know  anything  about  the  subject  which  they  did  not 
know, — a  Gefangener  being  a  sort  of  benighted  heathen. 

I  sounded  their  ignorance,  however,  rather  pointedly  one 
evening.  We  were  seated  at  the  supper-table  and  I  found 
myself  hotly  assailed  not  only  by  the  five  members  of  the 
household  but  a  visiting  aunt  and  uncle  as  well. 

"Germany  is  bigger  than  all  the  Allies  put  together,"  an- 
nounced Auntie.    "I  don't  see  what  you  all  keep  fighting  for !" 

"What  is  the  population  of  Germany?"  I  repeated. 

They  did  not  quite  hear  me. 

"What  is  the  population  of  Germany?"  I  repeated. 


6  Beaten. 

T  Mecklenburgish,  Ne;  German,  Nein;  English,  No. 


How  It  Feet  to  be  a  Prisoner  oe  War  21 

I  was  looking  at  Auntie,  but  she  was  looking  at  somebody 
else  and  they  were  all  looking  about  as  though  they  had  lost 
something.  Then  someone  called  on  Mutter7"  to  save  the  situ- 
ation. 

"Yes,  Mutter  knows !"  they  said. 

Mutter  suddenly  decided  to  go  into  the  kitchen  for  some 
more  potatoes,  but  she  was  trapped  by  Erna. 

"Tell  him,  Mutter,"  she  urged. 

Mutter  paused  a  moment  and  then : 

"Joachim  can  tell  you  all  right  when  he  comes  on  leave !" 
she  exclaimed  triumphantly  as  she  went  out  of  the  door. 

The  Central  Powers  were  winning  again. 

"Yes,  and  we've  lots  more  hand  grenades  and  things  than 
you  all !"  gloated  Auntie. 

"How  many  hand  grenades  ?"  I  asked  again  statistically. 

"Oh,  hundreds  of  them !"  she  replied. 

"Just  how  many  soldiers  have  the  Germans  got?"  I  in- 
quired a  few  minutes  later. 

It  was  Erna  who  volunteered  to  reply. 

"I  know  exactly.  My  brother  told  me  and  he's  an  Unter- 
offizier!  We've  six  thousand  and  the  English  only  three 
thousand !  Twice  as  many !  Why,  he  saw  two  hundred 
soldiers  in  one  town!" 

This  quite  put  the  cap  on  it.  It  put  an  end,  anyway,  to  any 
serious  discussion  of  the  matter  on  my  part.  But  talk  I  must, 
and  not  wishing  to  see  the  name  of  England  writhing  in  the 
dust,  I  tried  to  adopt  myself  to  the  peasant  style  of  argument. 
About  a  month  thereafter  you  might  have  found  me  enter- 
taining my  German  companions  in  the  fields  in  this  wise : 

"Ha,  Ha !  We  laugh  at  the  Germans  in  London !  We 
spit  on  them — the  monkeys !  You're  fine  Kerls — you  black 
bread  eaters,  you  cherry-leaf  smokers,  you  wooden-shoed  pigs ! 
Wouldn't  you  look  fine  on  the  Paris  boulevard  in  those?  Was? 
Ach,  we  spit  on  the  Germans!  Passe  mal  auf,  die  Engl'dnder 
are  coming,  and  they  shoot — So — and  the  Germans  will  run — 
So — Ja,  you're  schon  dumm,  you  are !" 

T*  Mother. 


CHAPTER  IX     • 
The  Russian  Peace 

"Oh,  Ben,  have  you  seen  the  papers  ?"  asked  Erna  one  day 
as  I  came  in  for  Kaffeetrinken.  "Peace  has  been  declared ! — 
Peace !" 

"Was?"  I  asked,  dumbfounded. 

"Peace !  Peace  has  been  declared !  The  Russians  have 
made  peace !" 

"Oh!"  I  sighed,  my  hopes  dashed  to  the  ground.  "I've 
heard  that  before." 

"J a,  but  it  is  true,"  corroborated  Mutter.  "It's  real  peace ! 
It's  the  beginning  of  the  end.  It'll  all  be  settled  now  in  a 
few  weeks!  Hostilities  on  the  Eastern  Front  have  ceased. 
There  it  is  in  the  paper." 

She  handed  me  the  Rostocker  Anseiger  and  they  watched 
me  while  I  read  the  story  of  the  Treaty  of  Brest-Litovsk. 
They  expected  me  to  dance  with  glee  at  the  joyous  news  and 
were  keenly  disappointed  when  I  failed  to  share  their  elation. 

"Aren't  you  glad  ?"  asked  Mutter,  "It's  peace !  Peace !" 

"No,"  I  said.    "It's  war,  worse  war  and  more  of  it!" 

I  read  the  paper  with  no  little  interest  for  the  next  few 
days,  glowing  and  optimistic  and  especially  conciliatory  to- 
ward the  vanquished  Russians.  The  Russians  were  naturally 
clever  and  amiable  people,  who  had  simply  been  the  unfortu- 
nate dupes  of  wicked  England.  The  hand  of  friendship  was 
again  to  be  extended  to  the  Slavonic  brethren,  and  all  ani- 
mosities inspired  by  the  war  were  to  be  forgotten.  Indeed,  it 
severely  pained  the  tender  heart  of  the  Germans  that  they 
had  been  compelled  to  kill  so  many  Russians,  and  they  fer- 
vently prayed  that  no  misunderstanding  would  ever  again 
arise  between  the  great  German  and  Russian  races. 

No  reference  was  made  to  the  treatment  of  the  Russian 
prisoners,  for — there  it  stood  in  the  treaty — they  were  to  be 
"repatriated  with  all  possible  speed !" 

The   helpless  Russian   Gefangener,   however,   already  the 


How  It  Felt  to  be  a  Prisoner  op  War  23 

most  brutally  treated  of  the  prisoners,  were  from  that  day  re- 
duced to  a  more  abject  and  wretched  slavery  than  ever  before. 
Cut  off  from  all  outside  help  and  with  no  government  at  home 
capable  of  protesting,  they  were  absolutely  at  the  mercy  of 
their  German  masters.  They  were  overworked  and  whipped 
or  slashed  or  imprisoned  whenever  it  pleased  any  particular 
German  to  do  so.  In  the  camps  and  on  the  big  working 
Komandos,  they  begged,  thieved,  waited  on  the  other  prisoners 
for  their  food,  or  else — starved. 

The  repatriation  clause  keenly  interested  the  Russians  in 
Kossebade.  The  evening  after  the  news  came  they  gathered 
in  joyous  groups  in  the  village  square  and  sang  songs  and 
congratulated  one  another. 

A  German  farmer  saw  me  watching  them. 

"Don't  you  wish  England  had  made  peace,"  he  asked,  "so 
you  could  go  home,  too !" 

For  weeks  afterward  the  Russians  talked  confidently  of 
going  home.  "When  are  you  going  home?"  was  the  usual 
greeting  when  we  met  one  of  them. 

"Don't  know,  but  soon !"  was  the  reply. 

Some  months  later  I  met  my  old  neighbor,  Ivan,  now 
nearly  four  years  in  captivity.  We  were  ploughing  two  ad- 
joining fields. 

"When  are  you  going  home,  Ivan?"  I  asked  jocularly.  It 
was  the  first  time  that  I  had  referred  to  it  for  a  long  time. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  answered  smiling  sadly,  "I  think  mine 
is  a  life  sentence !" 

When  at  last  the  armistice  was  signed  and  the  French  and 
Belgians  and  all  the  rest  of  us  were  leaving,  poor  old  Ivan 
was  still  there,  and  so  were  his  thirty-four  comrades — still 
going  wearily  through  the  routine  of  toil  for  their  German 
masters,  and  playing  Einnndzwanzig  on  Sundays !  The  day 
of  departure  had  passed  into  that  realm  of  sweet,  but  distant 
hope  to  which  the  Millenium  belongs. 


CHAPTER  X 
German  Lorers 

I  was  cleaning  up  in  the  stable  one  day  when  Miga  rushed 
in  with  a  telegram  in  her  hand. 

"Ben,  Ben !"  she  exclaimed,  quaking  with  excitement. 
"Karl  is  coming  today !" 

Who  Karl  was  or  what  the  matter  had  to  do  with  me  I 
couldn't  imagine.     "Where  is  Warner?"  she  asked. 

I  told  her,  and  she  rushed  out  to  find  him.  Evidently  it 
was  something  which  everybody  had  to  know.  I  was  inter- 
ested. I  rather  liked  Miga.  She  had  travelled  a  bit,  and  I  put 
her  down  easily  the  most  intelligent  member  of  the  household. 
But  who  was  Karl? 

I  soon  had  an  opportunity  of  learning,  for  the  boy  August 
came  in. 

"Don't  you  know,"  he  said  winking.  "That's  her  beau !" 

In  due  course  Karl  arrived,  a  smart  young  sergeant  from 
a  Dragoon  regiment.  He  spent  two  days  with  us  and  though  he 
was  almost  constantly  with  Miga,  he  frequently  found  time 
to  joke  with  me  about  the  mud  on  the  Somme,  soldiers'  fond- 
ness for  beer,  the  capitalist  bandits,  et  cetera ;  giving  me  a  cig- 
arette on  each  occasion.  Like  most  soldiers  from  the  front, 
he  had  less  of  the  air  of  superiority  toward  prisoners  of  war 
than  the  civilians.  He  regarded  the  war  as  simply  a  rotten 
business  for  all  parties  concerned  and  avoided  talking  seri- 
ously on  any  topic. 

For  Miga  it  was  a  happy  two  days.  The  night  before  his 
departure,  he  went  out  to  say  goodbye  to  some  friends,  and  she 
broke  into  tears. 

"Silly,  ain't  it?"  observed  Erna  to  me  grinning,  as  Miga 
went  weeping  to  her  bedroom. 

Miga  drove  with  him  to  the  station  the  next  morning  and 
we  all  turned  out  to  see  them  off. 

"Give  my  regards  to  my  brother,"  I  said,  "if  you  meet  him 
on  the  Somme." 


How  It  Feet  to  be  a  Prisoner  of  War  25 

"Ja  wohl!"  he  answered  laughing,  "I'll  fetch  him  over  to 
keep  you  company." 

He  shook  hands  with  everybody  else  and  exchanged  sa- 
lutes with  me.  We  watched  them  drive  away,  and  Mutter 
stood  silently  at  the  gate  long  after  the  trap  had  vanished  in 
the  distance. 

I  saw  no  more  of  Miga  after  she  returned  until  the  next 
afternoon — she  was  confined  to  her  bed  with  lovesickness.  It 
was  Kaffeetrinken  time  when  she  appeared  again  at  the  table. 
Her  eyes  were  red  and  her  cheeks  were  swollen.  She  ate  in 
silence  until  the  rest  had  left  the  table,  and  then  waited  to 
speak  to  me. 

"What  makes  you  men  fight?"  she  asked  slowly,  gazing 
out  of  the  window.     "Isn't  it  horrible !" 

"Ja,"  I  agreed,  "Horrible  beyond  all  words." 

"He  might  be  killed !  How  cruel  the  Engldnder  must  be 
to  kill  such  boys  as  Karl.  Don't  you  think  it  is  cruel — cruel — 
cruel  ? 

"War  is  cruel,"  I  conceded.  It  was  useless  to  start  an 
argument.  "But  he's  been  through  three  years  of  it  all  right, 
so  why  are  you  worrying  now?  Besides,  the  war  is  bound 
to  end  soon,"  I  added  hopefully. 

"Why  didn't  you  go  and  let  him  stay  with  me?"  she  de- 
manded, clutching  at  a  childish  idea.  "You  always  say  that 
you  would  rather  be  back  there  fighting  than  here.  What 
horrible  mistakes  the  lieber  Gott  makes !  Why  don't  you  go 
and  fight  in  his  stead  and  send  him  back  to  me?" 

"I  should  hardly  care  to  fight  in  his  stead,  Fraulein,"  I 
said.  I  could  not  give  her  any  comfort  so  I  arose  and  went 
out,  leaving  her  staring  blankly  out  of  the  window. 

She  took  me  somewhat  into  her  confidence  after  that,  and 
often  read  me  letters  from  Karl.  The  first  letter  found  him 
at  a  reinforcement  camp  near  Bruges. 

"Pray  God  he  stops  there,"  she  said. 

But  he  didn't;  for  the  end  of  March  found  him  writing 
letters  like  this :  "We  have  crossed  the  Marne !  Peace  and 
victory  are  in  sight.     We  go  forward  with  God!" 

"Isn't  it  noble !"  Miga  said. 


CHAPTER  XI 
Free  for  Three  Days 

At  last  one  summer's  evening  they  gathered  around  the 
supper  table  and  Ben  failed  to  appear.  I  would  give  worlds 
to  have  seen  the  expressions  on  their  faces  then,  and  on  the 
sentry's  later  when  he  came  and  found  no  Bngldnder  there 
to  lock  up.  I  had  come  to  seem  too  permanent  there !  I 
was  as  much  an  institution  on  the  place  as  the  dog,  Telo,  or 
the  broken  pump. 

While  they  were  making  these  rude  discoveries  I  lay 
crouched  on  a  bed  of  moss  in  a  secluded  dell  in  one  of  the 
grand  duke's  forests  smoking  my  pipe  and  speculating  as  to 
whether  another  fortnight  would  find  me  in  Denmark  or  in 
a  German  jail.  I  had  just  finished  a  good  supper  of  bread, 
"bully,"  condensed  milk,  and  dates  from  my  box  of  English 
provisions  and  was  resting  a  moment  before  going  on. 

My  linen  collar  wilted  with  perspiration  and  I  threw  it 
away,  having  plenty  more  in  my  bag  to  put  on  in  the  morning. 
I  had  spent  most  of  the  afternoon  in  putting  together  my 
civilian  attire,  for  I  had  to  escape  from  the  village  in  my 
prisoner's  garb.  I  carried  patches  of  black  cloth  in  my  pock- 
ets, accurately  cut  out  to  fit  the  prisoner's  stripes  on  my  cap 
and  trousers.  These  I  sewed  on  in  the  midst  of  a  rye  field 
immediately  I  got  clear  of  the  village.  My  coat,  I  had  found, 
would  not  admit  of  alteration,  so  I  had  contrived  to  get  an- 
other. I  walked  into  the  little  room  adjoining  the  barn, 
belonging  to  Warner,  the  old  care-taker,  and  selecting  the 
best  of  the  coats  hanging  there,  a  gay  cream-colored  creation, 
I  put  it  on  under  my  black  one.  Then  I  put  two  suits  of  my 
new  English  underwear  in  a  parcel  under  his  bed,  for  I  did 
not  care  to  steal  from  Warner.  He  had  seen  me  thrash  a 
German  boy  without  reporting  it  and  had  befriended  me  on 
various  occasions.     On  top  of  the  parcel  I  scribbled  a  note : 


How  It  Felt  to  be  a  Prisoner  of  War  27 

"Dear  Warner: 

"This  underwear  is  in  exchange  for  your  coat  which  I 
must  take  with  me.    Danke  schon.    Auf  Wiedersehen! 

Ben." 

I  spent  most  of  the  time  tramping,  stopping  when  tired 
or  when  the  view  pleased  me,  for  a  rest,  and  sleeping  in  the 
middle  of  the  day.  I  passed  through  numerous  villages  and 
towns  whose  names  I  usually  learned  from  the  mile-posts 
along  the  road.  These  were  about  ten  feet  high  and  at  night 
I  had  to  climb  up  them  and  hold  my  eyes  close  to  the  board 
to  read  the  inscription.  It  was  the  first  time  I  had  spent  the 
night  outside  of  my  cell  for  many  months  and  I  enjoyed 
the  sight  of  the  moon  and  the  stars  again.  The  long  North 
German  twilight  was  glorious,  too,  and  I  often  lay  on  some 
hillside  above  the  fields  and  meadows  and  villages,  and 
watched  it  while  I  rested. 

I  was  seldom  accosted.  I  nearly  ran  into  an  old  gentle- 
man in  a  forest  on  one  occasion,  however.  He  was  a  thin,  aca- 
demic-looking old  chap,  wearing  classes  and  a  frock  coat, 
and  carrying  a  cane.  What  brought  him  to  the  forest  at 
that  unseemly  hour  I  have  never  been  able  to  imagine.  It 
was  just  after  midnight  and  the  darkness  was  so  dense  that 
we  could  neither  of  us  see  the  other  until  we  were  within  a 
few  inches  proximity,  and  the  mossy  earth  so  effectually  con- 
cealed the  sound  of  our  foosteps  that  we  narrowly  averted  a 
collision. 

"Donnerwetter  !"''*  he  screamed  in  a  squeaky  voice,  throw- 
ing up  his  hands  and  dropping  his  cane. 

I  was  startled  too,  but  finding  him  quite  harmless,  I  bade 
him:  "Guten  Abend!"'"  and,  laughing,  walked  on. 

Everywhere  through  this  farming  country  I  saw  prisoners 
of  war  at  work,  often  more  numerous  than  the  German 
laborers.  Like  faithful  slaves  in  the  small  farmyards  or 
like  gangs  of  convicts  on  the  big  estates,  they  carried  on  con- 
stantly the  work  of  the  absent  German  men  and  tilled  Ger- 


7b  Exclamation  about  equal  to  "Good  Heavens !" 
7cGood  evening. 


28  The;  Memoirs  of  a  Swine;  or 

many's  soil.  With  dull  and  hardened  faces  and  uniforms 
stained  and  patched  until  Cossack  was  scarcely  distinguish- 
able from  chasseur,  they  drudged  wearily  on. 

I  was  arrested  by  an  animated  scene  on  the  rye  fields  of 
a  big  estate.  About  thirty  English,  French,  and  Russian 
prisoners  with  a  sprinkling  of  Polish  girls  were  harvesting 
and  threshing  the  rye.  The  sun  was  scorching  hot,  and  their 
faces  were  black  with  dust  and  perspiration  as  they  bent 
over  the  big,  relentless  machine.  The  sole  German  on  the 
scene,  a  fat  sentry,  was  sitting  on  a  bench  in  the  shade  of  a 
tree,  sipping  a  glass  of  beer! 


CHAPTER  XII 
/  Encounter  a  Don  Quixote  and  Fall  a  Viclim  to  His  Prowess 

The  success  which  I  seemed  to  have  with  my  civilian  dis- 
guise gradually  led  me  to  assume  a  bolder  attitude.  I  began 
to  stroll  nonchalantly  along  the  main  roads  and  even  entered 
public  houses  and  tobacco  shops,  buying  cigars  and  bottles 
of  beer  to  drink  with  my  meals.  It  was  this  boldness  which 
later  caused  my  downfall. 

It  was  the  afternoon  of  the  third  day  and  I  was  resting 
beside  that  fateful  thoroughfare  which  runs  from  the  vil- 
lage of  Alt  Pokrent  to  the  town  of  Gadebusch,  when  one  of 
those  dazzling  creatures  which  belonged  to  the  mounted  Ger- 
man Landpolizei  road  up.  I  had  passed  two  of  them  during 
the  day  without  attracting  any  special  attention,  so  I  hoped  to 
be  able  to  ignore  this  one  and  coolly  lit  a  cigar. 

I  was  looking  the  other  way,  but  I  heard  tremulously  as 
he  drew  up  his  horse.  I  thought  of  flight,  but  a  high  bank 
stared  me  in  the  face.  I  glanced  timidly  around.  He  was 
curling  his  mustache  and  gazing  at  my  feet. 

"Guten  Abend,"  he  began  politely. 

I  wished  him  a  "Guten  Abend." 

Privately  I  wished  him  many  other  things. 

"Are  you — er — a  traveller?"  he  began  slowly. 

"Nein,  I  am  only  going  as  far  as  Gadebusch." 

"Where  is  your  home?" 

"In  Alt  Pokrent,"  I  answered  promptly. 

Then  he  fired  questions  at  me  with  bewildering  rapidity. 

"Work  there?" 

"Ja." 

"On  the  estate?" 

"Ja." 

"Since    when  ?" 

"Seven  months  ago." 

"Cutting  house  or  horses?" 

"Horses." 


30  The;  Memoirs  of  a  Swine  or 

"Who  owns  the  estate?" 

I  paused  a  moment  and  then  thought  of  a  Kossebade 
name. 

"Herr  Gottschalk." 

"Who's  the  inspector?" 

"Herr  Warner." 

Then  dramatically — "Where  did  you  get  those  boots?" 

I  looked  sheepishly  at  my  tell-tale  English  boots — better 
than  any  to  be  had  in  Germany. 

"I  bought  them  from " 

"J a,  ja!"  he  broke  in.  "We  know  all  about  that.  They're 
English  boots  and  the  English  don't  give  boots  to  Germans. 
You  told  me  a  schon  tale !  I  know  every  man,  woman  and 
child  in  Alt  Pokrent.  Ypu're  a  Pole  or  else  an  escaped  Rus- 
sian.    Stand  up!     Stop  smoking  and  take  off  your  coat!" 

I  obeyed  and  gave  him  Warner's  cream-colored  coat.  Not 
in  the  pocket  but  in  the  lining,  he  found  my  wallet  with  a 
collection  of  keepsakes,  including  a  photo  of  a  French  poilu, 
a  small  American  flag,  and  my  English  Certificate  of  At- 
testation.    He  was   quite  puzzled. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  soliloquized,  curling  his  mustache 
again.  "You're  something  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  war.  I 
am  going  to  hold  you  for  an  escaped  prisoner.  It  will  be 
better  for  you  to  tell  me  the  truth." 

Convinced  of  his  determination,  I  told  him  my  story,  and 
he  took  it  down  in  a  little  note-book. 

"I  don't  blame  you,  Junger,"  he  said.  "I  know  what  it  is 
to  be  homesick,  but  why  don't  you  English  come  to  your 
senses  and  stop  fighting  us?" 

It  is  my  firm  belief  that  the  natives  of  Gadebusch  had 
proclaimed  a  holiday  in  honor  of  my  capture,  for  they  were  all 
standing  out  on  the  sidewalks  when  we  entered,  my  humble 
self  trudging  along  in  front  with  my  box  of  provisions  and 
this  gallant  knight  errant  following,  mounted  on  his  black 
charger  and  armed  to  the  teeth.  Sword,  spurs,  revolvers, 
harness,  and  mustache  were  all  polished  to  the  highest  de- 
gree. Indeed  he  reminded  me  of  a  sort  of  Don  Quixote  as 
he  glared  fiercely  from  side  to  side  and  replied  majestically 


How  It  Felt  to  be  a  Prisoner  of  War  31 

to  the  queries  of  the  multitude  in  regard  to  my  nationality 
with:  "Englander!" 

In  short,  his  pose  suggested  that  unanswerable  question : 
"Why  should  Germany  tremble  ?" 

I  quite  enjoyed  the  fun  and  grinned  and  stared  brazenly 
back  at  the  Gadebuschers.  My  gendarme  was  apparently  bent 
on  giving  them  all  a  good  look  at  me,  for  he  marched  me  up 
one  street  and  down  another  until  we  had  pretty  well  covered 
the  town. 

We  ended  up  at  the  town  jail ;  a  charming  old  structure, 
overlooking  from  the  ground-floor,  a  pig-pen,  and  from  the 
upper  stories,  the  ramshackle  roofs  of  sundry  adjacent  houses. 
The  landlord  thoughtfully  relieved  me  of  my  burden  of  pro- 
visions as  I  entered  and  assigned  me  to  a  cell  on  the  second 
floor. 


CHAPTER  XIII 
My  Entertainment  at  Gadebusch 

I  hope  I  make  an  unchallenged  assertion  when  I  say  that 
it  was  my  first  visit  inside  a  civilian  jail.  It  was,  at  all  events, 
an  experience  which  I  do  not  wish  to  repeat.  At  first  I  wor- 
ried through  a  few  hours  examining  the  pictures  and  names 
carved  on  the  walls.  This  exciting  pastime  exhausted,  I  di- 
vided the  remaining  time  between  singing  and  reading  the 
old  German  Bible,  which  I  found  on  the  shelf,  beginning  with 
first  chapter  of  Genesis.  My  singing,  too,  was  restricted  to 
a  sotto  voce  the  second  day  when  a  voice  from  outside  the 
door  shouted: 

"Nicht  singen!  Nicht  singen!  Das  geht  nicht!'''  But  I 
think  this  prohibition  was  due  less  to  the  rules  and  traditions 
of  the  institution  than  to  the  peculiar  quality  of  my  singing. 

Three  times  a  day  the  old  warden  came  in  with  a  hunk  of 
my  bread,  a  slice  of  my  bacon,  and  a  cup  of  German  coffee. 
It  was  a  concession,  he  explained.  I  should  have  gotten  only 
the  coffee,  but  he  had  a  son  who  had  formerly  worked  in 
England !  It  was  lavish  fare  for  this  prison  at  any  rate,  for 
several  times  every  day  one  of  the  other  prisoners  appeared 
at  the  little  peep-hole  in  my  door  and  begged : 

"Brot,  Brot,  Kamarad!    Just  a  little  crumb  of  Brot!" 

I  was  not  a  little  curious  to  learn  what  manner  of  men 
my  comrades  in  misery  were.  I  was  accordingly  pleased  the 
second  night  when  I  gained  an  opportunity  of  improving  our 
acquaintance.  I  was  slumbering  peacefully  on  my  downy 
couch  when  I  felt  myself  being  roughly  shaken,  and  a  voice: 

"  Bngl'dnder !    Bngldnder!" 

It  was  my  kind  old  warden. 

"Kom    darunter — Blitzen!"s 

I  obeyed  him,  wondering,  slipping  on  my  trousers  and 
going  downstairs.  I  found  my  fellow  prisoners  to  be  two 
emaciated,  but  still  professional  looking  gentlemen  of  the 
underworld.     The  hall  clock  was  striking  two.     Having  gone 

8  Come  down — lightning. 


How  It  Felt  to  be  a  Prisoner  of  War  33 

through  the  usual  social  amenities,  I  sought  to  learn  what 
object  our  gaoler  had,  beyond  a  general  get-together  meeting 
of  the  inmates,  in  disturbing  our  repose  at  this  unwonted 
hour. 

"Ach"  explained  one  of  them,  who  was  hunchbacked, 
"That's  on  account  of  the  lightning!" 

We  listened  a  few  minutes  until  we  heard  a  rumble  of 
thunder. 

"Da!"  he  exclaimed,  "you  see  it  might  strike  the  jail,  and 
if  we  were  all  up  in  the  cells  we  would  die  like  rats !" 

It  struck  me  as  a  novel,  but,  I  agreed,  doubtless  quite  a 
wise  precaution. 

I  learned  further  that  we  three  were  all  the  prisoners.  The 
twenty-seven  empty  cells  were  a  testimonial  to  the  shattering 
effect  of  the  war  on  "business."  My  companions  were  serv- 
ing a  sentence  of  eight  months  for  a  robbery  committed  in 
the  town. 

"We  don't  any  of  us  belong  to  Mecklenburg,"  observed 
the  hunchback  pleasantly.  "You  see,  my  mate's  an  Austrian, 
I'm  an  East  Prussian,  and  you're  an  Bnglander,  so  we're  sort 
of  Kamaradcn,  aren't  we?" 

"How  jolly!"  I  thought. 

A  pause  ensued,  allowing  us  to  hear  the  whistle  of  a  loco- 
motive and  the  distant  rumbling  of  a  train  coming  around 
the  bend — which  bend  I  will  not  say,  for  the  sake  of  neu- 
trality. 

"Da,"  murmured  the  hunchback  pointing  toward  the  door, 
"There  comes  the  old  choo-choo !" 

"There?"  objected  the  Austrian  aghast.  He  pointed  to- 
ward the  clock.  "That's  the  way  the  train  comes  in.  You're 
forgetting  yourself." 

"Was?"  exclaimed  the  hunchback  on  the  defensive.  "I 
know  where  the  track  lies — I  came  in  that  way.  It's  just 
over  there,"  pointing  again  at  the  door,  "back  of  the  pond." 

"Are  you  mad,  Menchf"9  retorted  the  Austrian,  pointing 
again  at  the  clock,  "Didn't  you  just  hear  it  come  in  that  way?" 

"Man. 


34  The  Memoirs  of  a  Swine;  or 

Then  followed  one  of  the  hottest  little  debates  which  I  have 
ever  heard.  Both  men  grew  into  a  frenzy,  and  only  the  ties 
of  long  friendship — constantly  emphasized  by  the  hunchback — 
prevented  a  resort  to  physical  force.  When  the  old  warden 
came  in  half  an  hour  later  to  tell  us  that  danger  was  past,  he 
found  them  stretched  out  together,  haggling  over  a  map  of 
Gadebusch,  drawn  with  string  and  bits  of  paper  on  the  floor, 
a  match  stick  representing  the  train.  When  I  finally  went  up 
to  my  cell,  I  could  still  hear  the  disgusted  voice  of  the  hunch- 
back : 

"Aber,10  they  don't  run  locomotives  over  rye  fields,  tnein 
Lieber!"11 

It  was  about  noon  of  the  fifth  day  and  I  was  finishing  the 
Book  of  Isaiah,  when  the  guard  came  to  take  me  away.  My 
warden  did  not  forget  to  exact  a  fee  of  six  marks — being  the 
amount  of  my  hotel  bill  for  the  five  days,  at  a  mark  a  day,  ac- 
cording to   Gadebusch  reckoning. 


But. 

My  dear  fellow. 


CHAPTER  XIV 
Kultur  in  a  Train 

My  new  custodian  was  a  fat,  easy-going  German,  whom 
I  found  possessed  some  of  the  most  radical  of  revolutionary 
ideas,  but  like  a  vast  number  of  his  comrades,  too  apathetic 
to  trouble  about  carrying  them  out.  We  passed  a  little  dis- 
play of  wealth  in  the  form  of  a  smartly  dressed  gentleman, 
lady,  child  and  poodle  dog,  strolling  down  the  street. 

"They're  the  bandits !"  said  my  guard,  nudging  me.  "They 
eat  the  butter  and  eggs.  We  have  to  fight  on  dry  bread  and 
potatoes !" 

It  was  through  him,  too,  that  I  first  learned  of  Marshal 
Foch's  great  offensive,  though  it  was  too  young  as  yet  to 
bring  to  us  prisoners  the  Great  Hope.  We  were  seated  in 
the  corner  of  a  Gastwirtschaft  talking  over  glasses  of  wine 
(for  which  he  paid).  The  gramophone  was  playing:  "Pupp- 
chen,  du  hist  mein  Aug  ens  chats, >}  or  the  German  "Tipperary." 
He  leaned  over  as  if  about  to  divulge  a  great  secret. 

"Deutschland  ist  kaput!"12 

"Was?"  I  asked,  astonished  at  the  admission,  for  the 
German  newspapers  had  never  been  more  optimistic  than 
during  the  last  month. 

"Deutschland  ist  kaput — kaput"  he  repeated,  "absolutely 
tot!13  The  soldiers  will  turn  against  the  bandits  soon,  for 
they  are  starving!  The  food  is  finished — absolutely  finished. 
We  have  nichts — nichts — nichts!"1*  and  he  put  his  thumbs 
together  and  jerked  them  quickly  apart  as  though  breaking 
a  string. 

"J a,"  I  agreed,  "but  the  offensive?"  for  the  papers  were 
still  gloating  over  the  March  success. 

"The  offensive?"  he  went  on,  "Ach,  the  offensive  is  doing 
splendidly !       They've     captured     fifty     thousand     prisoners ! 


Germany   is   beaten. 
Dead. 
'  Nothing. 


36  The  Memoirs  of  a  Swine  or 

They're  going  immer  fester  d'raufl"  and  he  beat  himself  on 
the  chest  in  illustration.  "Ach,  Lieber,  it'll  soon  be  over 
now !" 

"I  thought  you'd  captured  one  hundred  and  twenty  thou- 
sand prisoners,"  I  protested,  puzzled. 

"Ach,"  exclaimed  the  guard,  "This  isn't  us,  it's  the 
French !" 

We  had  three  hours  to  wait  for  our  train,  so  he  took  me 
for  a  stroll  around  Gadebusch.  We  visited  two  ladies  who 
had  sons  in  English  and  French  imprisonment.  Both  of 
them  talked  kindly  to  me  and  said  that  their  sons  wrote 
pleasing  accounts  of  their  treatment  at  the  hands  of  the 
enemy.  Later  he  took  me  to  see  another  English  prisoner  in 
a  private  home.  It  was  a  joy  to  meet  him  and  speak  the 
language  again,  exchanging  the  stories  of  our  varied  adven- 
tures. He  was  "all  right"  there,  enjoying  the  privileges  of  a 
favored  slave  in  the  home,  valued  by  his  master  and  loved  by 
the  children,  for  whom  his  broken  German  was  a  source  of 
never-ending  amusement. 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  with  him?"  asked  his 
master  jocularly  of  my  guard. 

"Don't  you  want  another  Bngldnder,  Annie?"  he  asked, 
turning  to  the  oldest  girl. 

"J  a,  J  a!"  shouted  both  the  children  at  once. 

Finding  me  agreeable,  the  old  man  and  the  guard  im- 
mediately framed  a  letter  to  the  Komandatur  asking  for  my 
return  to  Gadebusch,  when  my  punishment  was  over. 

We  took  a  third  class  passage  back  to  the  camp  at  Par- 
chim.  It  was  one  of  those  long  carriages  with  seats  along 
the  sides  like  a  tram.  A  large  crowd  boarded  the  train  at 
Gadebusch,  but  we  got  in  among  the  first  and  managed  to  get 
seats.  When  the  guard  announced  my  nationality,  I  promptly 
became  the  cynosure  of  neighboring  eyes  and  the  object  of 
innumerable  questions,  which  he  obligingly  answered. 

At  the  next  station  we  received  another  influx  of  pas- 
sengers, including  a  number  of  females,  the  scarcity  of  the 
seats  and  the  preoccupation  of  the  gentlemen  occupying  them 
forcing  the  latter  to  stand.     This  gave  me  the  opportunity 


How  It  Feet  to  be  a  Prisoner  of  War  37 

for  a  cheap  triumph,  lessened  somewhat  by  the  fact  that  there 
was  no  one  beside  myself  to  enjoy  it. 

I  arose  gallantly  and  grasped  a  strap. 

"In  England,"  I  said  loud  enough  to  be  heard  throughout 
the  carriage,  "the  men  are  glad  enough  to  stand  when  there 
are  ladies  without  seats !" 

I  was  the  cynosure  of  piercing  glares,  but  after  an  awk- 
ward pause,  the  men  of  the  "superior"  race  began  one  by  one 
to  follow  my  example. 

I  grinned  inwardly,  but  my  outward  mien  preserved  the 
due  humility  of  a  Kricgsgefangener,  and  my  eyes  rested  on 
the  distant  fields. 


CHAPTER  XV 
"MadAlek"  and  "Good  Paul" 

In  the  future  annals  of  the  war,  one  Acting  Sergeant 
Major,  Alexander  Schroder,  chef  of  III  Kompanie,  Parchim 
Gefangenenlager,  better  known  to  the  Englishmen  as  "'Mad 
Alek,"  deserves  a  large  but  ignominious  chapter.  His  ludi- 
crous air  of  blood-curdling  bravado  and  his  childish  efforts  to 
play  the  role  of  the  Chocolate  Soldier  make  him  as  laughable 
as  his  brutish  cruelties  made  him  an  object  of  dread  and  hate 
to  the  thousands  of  prisoners  who  passed  through  his  hands. 

We  runaways,  nine  in  number,  were  lined  up  in  the  Biiro 
to  give  up  our  valuables  before  entering  the  Arrest  Barracks, 
when  this  creature  swaggered  in.  He  cut  a  dashing  figure 
with  the  air  of  a  champion  in  feats  of  arms — gained  from 
combats  with  helpless  prisoners — and  a  pair  of  polished 
spurs,  a  clanking  sword  and  a  fiercely  up-turned  mustacche 
completed  the  picture.  Every  prisoner  and  German  sprang 
to  attention. 

"What  are  these?"  he  demanded,  pointing  at  us. 

"Runaways,  sir?"  ventured  someone  timidly. 

"Was?  Was?  Runaways?"  Then  began  a  thrilling 
oration,  illustrated  with  the  drawn  sword,  on  the  wretched- 
ness and  depravity  of  us  all  and  of  all  the  foul  races  from 
whence  we  sprang. 

"This  man,"  said  the  Unteroffisier  humbly,  pointing  at  a 
Russian,  "has  a  complaint  to  make." 

With  a  trembling  hand  the  Russian  presented  a  letter 
signed  by  a  German  lady.  She  testified  to  the  brutal  treat- 
ment which  the  prisoner  had  suffered  at  the  hands  of  his 
master,  driving  him  to  desperation  and  flight. 

"He  beat  you,  did  he?"  sneered  "Mad  Alek,"  aroused  to 
fury  again.  "I  wouldn't  have  beaten  you — not  me !  I 
wouldn't  have  beaten  you.  I  would  have  killed  you !"  and  he 
went  through  the  movement  with  his  sword — "for  the  surly 
swine  you  are !" 

The  right  to  demand  a  writ  of  Habeas  Corpus  was  never 


How  It  Felt  to  be  a  Prisoner  of  War  39 

observed  in  a  German  prison  camp.  Offenders  were  thrown 
into  the  arrest  barrack  and  began  the  Hungerstraf  immedi- 
ately a  complaint  was  lodged  and  trial  awaited  the  casual  con- 
venience of  the  officer  of  justice. 

The  Hungerstraf  I  found  to  consist  of  confinement  to  a 
bedless  and  fireless  barrack  on  a  diet  of  pure  and  undiluted 
water.  There  were  no  other  Englishmen  there  at  the  time, 
but  I  met  a  Belgian  who  kept  me  agreeable  company.  He 
had  been  four  days  at  large,  sleeping,  as  he  said,  in  the  hay- 
stacks, and  making  for  Warnemiinde  where  he  had  hoped  to 
board  a  Danish  ship.  He  was  a  '14  prisoner  and  had  at- 
tempted escape  many  times  before.  He  seemed  but  a  youth 
with  the  smooth  face  of  a  girl,  but  he  knew  all  the  tortures  of 
German  captivity  at  its  worst. 

"I  only  want  to  get  back  and  fight  again,"  he  said  bit- 
terly. "I  shall  run  away  again  and  again  until  I  succeed,  or 
die — or  peace  is  declared  !" 

I  was  not  long,  however,  in  discovering  some  English 
neighbors.  They  were  in  the  Work  Barrack,  which  adjoined 
ours,  and  to  which  we  would  be  conducted  after  forty-eight 
hours  of  fasting. 

I  was  lying  down  composing  the  tentative  menu  for  One 
Grand  Feast  when  I  should  be  restored  to  freedom  (as  all 
men  do  when  they  are  suffering  from  hunger),  when  I  heard 
a  cheery  voice : 

"Any  Englander  there?" 

"Any  Englander  there?"  it  came  again. 

"Yes,  mate,"  I  shouted,  and  followed  the  voice  to  a  knot- 
hole in  the  wall,  "K.  R.  R." 

"I'm  Australian.  How're  you  getting  on?  Say,  turn  your 
stove  around,  lad,  and  put  your  arm  up  to  the  chimney.  I've 
some  soup  for  you !" 

I  made  haste  to  do  as  I  was  told. 

"That's  right,  Jack,  right  around.     Now,  get  this !" 

One  chimney  served  for  the  stoves  in  both  rooms,  and  by 
turning  his  own  stove  around,  he  was  able  to  get  his  arm 
through   and   pass   me   a   "bully"   tin    full   of    soup.      It    was 


40  The;  Memoirs  of  a  Swine;  or 

rotten  stuff,  and  mixed  with  soot  from  the  chimney  but  at  the 
moment,  it  was  better  than  the  food  of  the  gods. 

"Good  Old  Auzzie!"  I  said  fervently. 

The  next  day  I  was  carried  before  the  officer  of  justice 
for  trial.  Finding  that  I  spoke  German  he  dismissed  the  in- 
terpreter and  as  usual  in  the  case  of  prisoners  with  an  ap- 
pearance of  education,  gave  me  a  painstaking  hearing.  He 
wished  not  only  to  know  the  details  of  my  flight,  but  what 
college  I  had  attended,  what  studies  I  had  pursued,  and  my 
general  life  story. 

"Yiou  have  broken  German  martial  law,"  he  said  gravely, 
in  conclusion,  "and  must  be  punished,  but  I  shall  make  it 
light.    I  give  you  seven  days'  arrest." 

"But  what  about  the  seven  I  have  already  done?"  I  broke 
in. 

"Ach,  that  wasn't  punishment,"  he  explained,  "that  was 
hospitality!  We  couldn't  leave  you  in  the  street,  you  know. 
Seven  days  arrest,"  he  continued,  "subject  to  reduction  to 
two  on  report  of  good  conduct.  You  will  be  sent  back  to  the 
farm,  and  if  you  repeat  this  nonsense,  I  shall  deal  severely 
with  you.  On  the  other  hand,  you  may  be  assured  of  good 
treatment  until  the  end  of  the  war — if  you  do  your  duty!" 

"My  duty !"  I  exclaimed.  "My  duty,  Herr  Leutnant, 
would  be  to  poison  all  the  horses  and  set  fire  to  the  barns." 

He  dismissed  me  laughing. 

"Das  ist  ja  Krieg!"15  was  his  only  comment. 

The  proposed  return  to  Gadebusch  had  evidently  fallen 
through.  I  completed  the  Hungerstraf  and  afterward  spent  a 
few  extra  days  in  the  work  barrack  before  the  guard  came 
to  take  me  back  to  the  farm.  The  ration  in  the  work  barrack 
differed  from  that  in  the  Hungerstraf  in  that  they  mixed 
a  few  carrots  and  potatoes  with  the  water  and  called  it 
soup.  At  all  events  it  was  calculated  to  give  us  the  stamina 
necessary  for  work. 

We  were  marching  out  to  work  one  afternoon  when  I  was 


That  is  indeed  war. 


How  It  Felt  to  be  a  Prisoner  of  War  41 

astonished  to  see  one  of  the  Frenchmen  in  the  party  run  up 
to  the  guard  and  embrace  him  affectionately. 

"C'est  toi,  Paul!"™ 

"Francois!     Mon  vieux!"11 

But  I  recognized  the  guard  and  my  astonishment  was  re- 
moved. It  was  indeed  Paul.  "Good  Paul,"  as  the  Russians 
called  him,  a  French-Alsatian,  as  well  known  to  the  habitues 
of  the  detention  barracks  as  "Mad  Alek"  and  as  cordially 
loved  as  the  latter  was  hated.  He  had  contrived  to  stay  in 
the  prison  camp  since  the  outbreak  of  the  war  with  the  one 
object  of  smoothing  the  jagged  edges  of  captivity  for  Allied 
prisoners.  Neither  daily  abuses  from  his  German  comrades 
nor  the  constant  risk  of  punishment  for  himself  had  deterred 
him.  Many  a  man  will  remember  him  gratefully  for  a  timely 
rescue  from  wretched,  gnawing  hunger,  many  a  man  owes 
his  escape  from  a  Komando,  which  would  have  been  equiva- 
lent to  a  death  sentence  to  him,  and  the  despondent  hearts 
which  have  been  warmed  by  a  friendly  word  and  a  handshake 
from  Paul  would  be  difficult  to  estimate. 

We  had  the  job  of  loading  peat  on  the  trucks  behind  the 
camp.  After  loading  one  truck,  Paul,  having  explored  the 
scene  for  official  eyes  in  the  meantime,  put  Frangois  on 
sentry. 

"You  look  out  for  Unier  off  icier  en  f  he  directed,  and 
turning  to  the  rest  of  us,  "Sit  down  on  the  peat  baskets,"  he 
said.  "Here  are  cigarettes  for  some  of  you.  And  don't  any 
one  work  until  I  tell  you !" 

"Is  there  anyone  here,"  he  asked  presently,  knowing  our 
hunger,  "who  has  friends  in  the  cage  with  food?" 

"J a,"  replied  a  Serbian  and  I. 

"Swap  coats,"  he  said,  "in  case  any  of  the  guards  know 
you,  and  push  that  truck  in  the  gate." 

I  enjoyed  a  good  tea  with  a  sergeant  of  my  regiment 
and  we  both  returned  with  pockets  bulging  with  food,  which 
we  divided  with  our  comrades. 

We  were  all  warmly  grateful  to  Paul. 


"It  is  you,  Paul. 

17  Frangois,  my  Old  Mate  ! 


42  The;  Memoirs  of  a  Swine;  or 

"That's  only  my  business  here,"  he  said,  pleased. 

Whatever  else  may  be  done  at  the  Peace  Conference,  I 
want  the  Allies  to  make  a  search  of  Germany  and  Alsace- 
Lorraine  until  they  find  one  Paul  Sanchez  formerly  attached 
to  X  Kompanie,  Ersatz  Battalion  of  the  German  Army — 
a  little  man  with  a  blonde  mustache,  and  a  kindly  face — and 
give  him  a  Victoria  Cross ! 


CHAPTER  XVI 
The  World  Turned  Upsidedown 

I  will  detain  you  little  with  my  life  on  my  second  German 
farm,  for  I  was  sent  to  a  different  one.  One  coincidence 
should  be  noted,  however,  the  lady  for  whom  I  now  worked 
had  a  brother  in  England,  captured  near  Cambrai  in  the  same 
battle  in  which  I  fell  into  German  hands !  This  did  not 
alter  her  attitude  toward  me,  and  my  treatment  here  was 
worse  than  on  the  first  farm. 

My  sentence  of  seven  days'  arrest  was  to  consist  of  seven 
consecutive  Sundays  of  confinement  in  my  room,  in  the  attic, 
without  food.  What  occasion  I  gave  them  for  a  report  of  good 
conduct  I  don't  know,  but  the  seven  days  were  mercifully  re- 
duced to  two.  Having  a  liberal  supply  of  newspapers,  to- 
bacco and  food  concealed  in  my  room  and  the  German  serv- 
ing girl  bravely  passing  me  jugs  of  hot  coffee  by  means  of  a 
string  dropped  from  the  window,  I  spent  these  two  days  quite 
pleasantly. 

It  was  during  my  detention  that  I  learned  of  great  suc- 
cess of  our  offensive  and  the  probability  of  an  early  crash 
in  Germany.  From  then  on  I  read  the  newspapers  with 
feverish  interest  whenever  I  could  get  them  and  made  short 
translations  on  the  backs  of  letters  to  be  passed  to  other 
Englishmen  in  the  village,  and  to  the  other  villages.  I  grew 
restless  and  impatient  as  the  rumors  of  capitulation  and  revo- 
lution became  more  insistent.  I  couldn't  wait  to  read  the 
papers.  I  longed  to  hear  and  see  more  of  the  great  things 
which  were  happening  in  the  world  outside  of  our  sleepy 
village. 

At  last  I  contrived  to  get  as  far  as  Parchim  on  the  ex- 
cuse of  going  for  a  bath.  My  sentry  took  me  in  the  morning 
and  brought  me  back  in  the  afternoon. 

On  the  train  the  passengers  were  talking  excitedly,  but 
in  subdued  tones  lest  I  should  hear.  A  telegram  was  passed 
down  the  carriage.  The  gentleman  on  my  right  carefully 
passed  it  around  me  to  the  gentleman  on  my  left. 


44  The  Memoirs  of  a  Swine  or 

"For  God's  sake  let  me  see  it,  Kamarad!"  I  begged. 

"Nein.    Bs  ist  verboten."18 

I  studied  the  back  of  the  paper  as  he  held  it  up  to  read 
it  and  made  out  the  word  "Kaiser !" 

"Bitte!19  Bitte!  Kamarad/'  I  whispered,  "is  the  Kaiser 
gone  ?" 

"Not  yet,  but  soon !"  he  replied. 

The  Parchim  Railway  station  was  heavily  guarded  by  the 
Badgeless  troops  of  the  Soldatenrat.20  In  the  camp  I  found 
the  boys  all  merry  and  bright.  The  signing  of  the  Armistice 
was  daily  expected.  Repatriation  by  Christmas  was  conceived 
possible. 

I  gathered  all  the  news  I  could  from  the  English  chaps 
in  the  baths.  A  new  regime  had  come  in  the  camp.  All  the 
officers  and  all  the  most  notorious  of  the  old  bullies  had  fled, 
leaving  the  Soldatenrat  in  control. 

"They  found  'Mad  Alek,'  "  he  announced. 

"Found  him?"  I  asked  puzzled. 

"Yes,  he  beat  it,  you  know.  Disappeared  when  they  heard 
Bulgaria  had  chucked  it — took  most  of  the  garrison  funds 
with  him.  They  found  him  last  week  in  a  forest  near  the 
Danish  frontier.     He'd  hung  himself." 

I  returned  to  my  farm,  resolved  to  submit  to  no  more  re- 
strictions, if  indeed  to  work  at  all.  I  could  not  help  taunting 
my  sentry  and  all  my  favorite  enemies  in  the  village  (who 
had  so  long  jeered  at  me)  over  Germany's  debacle.  They 
had  always  regarded  me  as  a  "Smart  Alek"  and  now  I  ex- 
asperated them  delightfully.  My  relations  with  the  sentry 
reached  a  climax  one  evening  when  he  found  me  reading  a 
newspaper  by  candle-light  in  the  barn. 

"Das  ist  verboten!"  he  commanded. 

"Who  told  you  that,  mein  Lieberf"  I  asked,  grinning  con- 
descendingly. 

"Laugh  at  me  will  you?  You  swine!"  He  roared  and 
before  I  was  aware  he  struck  me  a  blow  in  the  chest  that 


It  is   forbidden. 
'  Please. 
'  Council  of  soldiers. 


How  It  Felt  to  be  a  Prisoner  of  War 


45 


sent  me  reeling.  Aghast  and  indignant  I  started  back  at  him. 
Quick  as  a  flash  he  had  drawn  his  bayonet  and  he  struck  my 
arm  threateningly  with  the  flat  of  it. 

"Go  to  bed,  you  swine !"  he  ordered. 

Confronted  by  cold  steel,  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  to 
obey.  I  climbed  slowly  upstairs  to  my  room,  the  German 
close  on  my  heels,  striking  me  constantly  with  the  bayonet  to 
hurry  me.  I  went  to  bed  with  that  wretched  and  maddening 
feeling  of  a  man  who  has  received  blows  which  he  cannot 
repay.  I  could  not  sleep.  I  got  up  and  sat  down  and  smoked 
until  they  unlocked  my  door  in  the  morning. 


I  resolved  to  go  to  Parchim  the  next  day  and  seek  redress 
from  the  revolutionaries.  I  would  see  if  the  justice  of  which 
they  prated  was  a  reality.  I  had  to  wait  until  dusk,  for  flight 
was  still  verboten,  and  I  must  escape  unobserved.  Setting  out 
in  my  English  uniform  with  my  buttons  brightly  polished  and 


46  The  Memoirs  oe  a  Swine  or 

carrying  my  belongings  in  a  neat  little  German  haversack,  I 
walked  all  the  fifteen  kilometers  to  Parchim,  arriving  in  the 
Komandatur  at  about  eight  o'clock.  I  found  all  young  boys 
from  the  new  movement  in  charge,  and  they  listened  to  my 
story  with  sympathetic  indignation.  I  could  not  however,  see 
the  officer  of  justice  until  the  day  after  tomorrow,  and  being 
a  runaway,  I  must  spend  the  remaining  time  in  the  deten- 
tion  barrack. 

In  this  old  house  of  misery  I  found  every  evidence  of  the 
"New  Order."  The  Hungerstraf  had  been  abolished.  I  was 
permitted  to  keep  my  cigarettes  and  tobacco.  In  the  morn- 
ing the  guard  asked  me  for  the  address  of  a  friend  in  the 
camp,  and  went  out,  returning  with  a  cup  of  hot  tea  and  a 
generous  meal !  He  repeated  this  performance  three  times  a 
day. 

The  new  officer  of  justice  was  a  studious  looking  young 
man  from  the  Soldatenrat.  The  point  of  my  having  run  away 
he  magnanimously  waived,  and  he  carefully  took  down  my 
charges  against  the  sentry  in  a  big  book.  He  promised  me 
complete  satisfaction. 

"But  when  is  this  trial  going  to  come  off?"  I  asked,  anx- 
ious to  see  it  through  myself.  "I  want  to  be  there  and  testify 
against  him  to  his  face." 

"I  am  sorry,"  he  apologized,  "but  this  matter  must  be 
referred  to  the  Soldatenrat.  Your  assailant  will  be  arrested 
and  the  matter  thoroughly  investigated,  but  it  will  take  time. 
See  me  in  a  fortnight  and  I  will  give  you  a  good  report  of 
what  has  been  done. 

"I  hope  to  be  in  England  in  a  fortnight,"  I  said  resignedly, 
"so  I  must  trust  you  to  see  justice  done." 


CHAPTER  XVII 
"Auf  Wiedersehen" 

A  fortnight  later  found  us  in  Warnemiinde,  awaiting  em- 
barkation. We  were  quartered  in  the  luxurious  Naval  Fly- 
ing Corps  Barracks,  and  living  on  the  fat  of  the  land,  but 
chafing  and  impatient  for  the  old  "Blighty"  ship.  The  natives 
of  Warnemiinde  were  obsequiously  polite  to  the  Bnglander 
now.  I  was  returning  one  evening  to  the  Flug plats  when  I 
was  overtaken  by  a  kindly-looking  old  lady. 

"Guten  Abend,  Junger,"  she  said,  smiling  pleasantly.  They 
say  you're  leaving  tomorrow.  I  suppose  you're  glad  you  are 
are  going  home?" 

I  told  her  I  was. 

"My  boys  will  never  come  again,"  she  went  on  sadly,  and 
she  told  me  about  her  three  sons  which  she  had  sacrificed 
for  the  Fatherland. 

"Now  the  nightmare  is  over,"  she  sighed,  "and  Deutsch- 
land  liegt  unter!"21 

Finally,  as  she  grasped  my  hand  before  turning  down 
another  street : 

"Tell  them  to  be  merciful  on  us,"  she  said.  "Goodbye, 
and  bon  voyage!" 

True  enough  the  next  day  we  marched  down  overloaded 
with  kit  and  souvenirs  to  board  the  ship  and  bade  a  final 
"Auf  Wiedersehen"  to  the  Land  of  Captivity.  Happy  and  ex- 
cited we  greeted  the  ship  as  a  Goddess  of  Liberty  come  to  take 
us  to  a  better  land.  Laughing  and  singing  were  the  order 
and  with  the  unfailing  humor  of  Tommy  Atkins  as  we 
mounted  the  gangplank  arose  the  familiar  strains  of : 

"...     For  this  is  the  end  of  a  Perfect  Day." 

The  End 


Germany  lies  under    (Germany  is  vanquished). 


